Her Own Somewhere
by Anzel Wolveine
Summary: Dumpsters are good for a lot of things. They're good for trash, they're good for hiding things...but they're pretty hard to miss. So when Helga is caught crying behind a dumpster with a Locket in her hand, what else could she do? Dumpsters are for trash, and she had a lot to throw away. ((Helga/Arnold, if the Jungle Movie was cancelled...forever))


He didn't have to breathe.

I mean, sure, _breathing_ is a pretty important thing for humans, I know, but _him_? He breathed like that just to let me know he was there.

Kinda appreciate that.

Yasee, Brainy's not just one of your average, runathemill stalker, oh nononono...he knew exactly _how_ to stalk, and when to _show up_. Always at the right time. Kinda funny how I never put it together 'til now.

So there I was, behind Dumpster Numero Uno, The Primero Dumpsterino or whatever you wanna call it, and I was balling my eyes out. First time for everything, right? Well, puberty's a bitch, don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. And I got beaten by that bitch, just about every night, that first month. Right up until I figured out what was messing with me, then woo-ee, was THAT a relief.

I'll take bleeding over being a little sissy any day, kinda affects my image, you know?

Now, getting back to Brainy. I was crying like some granny at a funeral when I notice the kid kinda lurking there around the corner. He kinda backed up a little when he noticed I saw him, but I think it was for my benefit. He knew I wanted privacy, and I kinda did. I was tempted to yell at him for a second, but a sniffling mess isn't exactly threatening, so I just...crumpled. Right there, against that empty dumpster no one ever used.

I looked at him, and he looked back. I rubbed the tears out of my eyes for a moment, and by the time I looked back up, he was next to me, holding out a handkerchief.

Our eyes met.

"Take it. Feel better," he said, his nasally voice a bit sadder than I was used to. I reflexively held my hand to my chest, where the Locket sat. He smiled.

I nodded my head down, looking blurrily through my knees as he wandered off.

I washed the handkerchief when I got home; I never gave it back. 

* * *

Some people say when you get older, you change. You grow up. You grow out of all those silly little crushes and bad habits, and you _grow up_.

Ha. Tell Bob that. Tell my perfect sister _Olga_ that, even.

Seriously, outside of the _wonders_ of _brassieres_ and the lovely once-a-month gift, not much changed. Well, ignoring the dumpster trips, but I'll get to that later. For now, let's just focus on this whole, 'growing up,' thing.

You see, Miriam always told me I'd grow up to be a 'beautiful swan,' I just had to 'hold out for a little while.' Guess she meant a moulting one.

Along with the joys of shaving and deodorant, I've come to enjoy other additions to my face that make me even less pleasing to look at. Difficult, right? I mean, I even started shaving the old uno-brow just to look a little LESS like I crawled out of a dimly lit cave into humanity not long ago. I gave up on that ugly dress I hung onto throughout my childhood. I mean, not without a fight, but if I look down I'm reminded WHY the thing stopped fitting.

Womanhood. Not as fun as poetry led me to believe.

I still wore pink though, but I _guess_ you could say what I wore was a bit more, well, as Rhonda would say, 'fashionable.' Whatever floats her boat I guess.

Though in all honesty, I kind-of was hoping that Ar…

Well anyways, enough of that crap about my petty personal problems, let's get back to the point. I didn't change, like, at all. I'm still the same girl who won't take anyone's crap. Not many kids even talk to me anymore. I sit alone at lunch, well, with Phoebe, and she brings me back to reality every once in a while. I mean, zoning out while writing in a crowded lunch room IS a good way to be caught, but...when the mood hits me, I just gotta.

Sometimes, when Phoebe's not there, I let Brainy chill. We don't talk, he doesn't breathe, it's a pretty good relationship. I mean, sometimes I catch him staring, but I let it slide. Kid's obsessed with me, farbeit for me to stop him from doing something he likes. I don't plan on asking him what his deal is, because I'm afraid he won't co…

So, Arnold. He's the Elephant in the Lunch Room. Head's hard to miss, so it's a fitting description, amirite? No, but seriously, kid hasn't changed either. Little quieter, less of a leader I guess, but he's still the same guy I remember from…

Why can't I do this? I mean, no one's going to read this while it still matters, right? This is just me dealing with life in a less hide-behind-the-dumpster-and-dent-it-sometimes way. Dr. Bliss told me it was high time I sat down and wrote about my life; she assured me everyone would LOVE to read about it. I told her she was on something. But that's how our relationship works: she says something nice, I tell her she's crazy. It's a game.

So...Arnold. He's...how can I describe it in words, confined to such a page as this? Impermanent, uninked, not special in any way. Such a bespeckled journal holds no import, it doesn't deserve to have the tales of his opulence displayed upon its wretched dead, lined tree cuttings.

I gotta write. 

* * *

_Words are beneath you  
But still, I must speak  
Of your eyes of sweet diamonds  
And head, so unique  
A smile that melts  
The clouds into rain  
The sun is beneath you  
But I'll try again  
Oh Arnold, you dunderhead  
Arnold, you fool  
Play me, an instrument,  
Make me your tool  
I'm locked in your heart  
Without food or key  
Oh Arnold, my Arnold  
Don't live without me_

* * *

Whoo...that was a load off the chest. That idiot just spins his dumb web around me and pretends he has no clue, then wonders why I'm angry with him all the time! Who holds doors open for girls anymore, seriously? Apologizes when _I_ bump into _him_! He's hopeless! Completely and utterly foolish...as he always has been.

I think my only luck so far is that no one wants anyone as good as him. Pfft, well, their loss is my gain. Eventually, or...I guess maybe it'll…

No...

It's been 14 years.

How many times have I tried to confess my feelings? How many times has it _worked_? And the one time I did it, I…

Took it all back.

I once joked to the Doc that I was a sure-win for Saddest Masochist. She didn't say I was wrong.

I don't cry about him…well, not anymore. Mostly I cry about my life, even if that _is_ kinda petty. I'm kind-of starting to realize most kids don't have a life like I do. Their parents are different. Their houses are welcoming. I'm lucky not to find Miriam on the welcome mat.

At least Arnold shares that with me...the bad parents thing, that is. Well...I mean, they weren't bad. They were actually pretty damned good, from what I learned, but when we found out…

Poor kid's never been the same. I'd been so sure he'd been getting closer to me, but all-of-a-sudden, poof! He retreated into a shell and wouldn't talk to anyone but Hair-Boy.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have given up when he found out his parents were dead.

Or that I should have been there.

Instead, I left him alone.

Because when I'm hurting over stuff that 'close to home,' everyone always leaves me alone. I...I figured that's what people do. They let people get over things on their own.

He wouldn't even look at me without contempt in his eyes for a good half a year after that. I almost gave in one day and just left him the Locket, this time with a way to open it. Just so he could know someone l…

But I chickened out. Cuz that's what a tough girl does, right? Walks up to her crush's doorstep, rings the bell, then runs away and hides in a dumpster.

I act like Bob, but I have all the bravery of Miriam. Wonder where all of Olga's goodness comes into the equation, cuz I'm apparently useless at it.

Either way though, I...

I wish he'd still talk to me.


End file.
